I write in bursts.

When something catches my fancy and grabs hold of my attention firmly, and there have been many things over the last 25 years which have, I place my entire focus of being onto it until I feel I have a broad and competent understanding or knowledge of the activity.

Yet, I always stop short of true mastery.

Whenever I took on a new endeavor, my college roommate would call me out as a an undisciplined dilettante. I countered I was simply more open minded, interesting and worldly than he. I felt my flexibility to shift gears rapidly and in random directions was an asset. I wore it as a badge of honor.

While my defense and pride was merited in some regard, I realize the natural tendency of my attention to wander has lead me to distraction at the appearance of even the slightest shiny new object (or person) in my path. Intense focus is something I can maintain only with great effort. Like many, I am inherently drawn to novelty, and if not adequately deterred or engaged, will consume it to my detriment, like a hungry teenager gorging on free pizza.

However, one not so shiny or new thing always manages to regain my attention in time: Writing.

When I was younger, my father counseled me to always focus on learning to write well. Regardless of what profession I might pursue, he assured me the skill of writing would crossover all disciplines. His early encouragement, combined with my mother’s consistently strong English teaching skills and guidance, led me to feel confident playing with words at an early age.

Even when I’ve been away for awhile, words dancing across a page comfort me as I bring them into existence.

Hello, dear friends. I’ve missed you.

It’s good to see you again.

— The Impostor